


It Had to Be Demons, Didn't It?

by Cynthia_Gold



Series: Fluff Ensues [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Demons, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Minor Injuries, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3280943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynthia_Gold/pseuds/Cynthia_Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You rescue an injured Dean Winchester from some demons and take care of him.  Fluff ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Had to Be Demons, Didn't It?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coldplaying_In_The_TARDIS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldplaying_In_The_TARDIS/gifts).



You swear your heart skipped a beat when you saw Dean like that, bloodied, head lolling to one side, mumbling under his breath.  You hurriedly yanked your knife out of the demon at your feet and raced to Dean's side, cupping his face in your hands and gently patting it.  You said his name again and again, more frantic with each passing moment, until after what seemed like hours he peered up at you, blearily.  

"Where've you been, kiddo?"  he slurred.  Despite his unfocused eyes, Dean was, as ever, trying to put on a brave face, especially for you.  You let out a puff of air as the relief slipped into you, and in your new clarity remembered that Dean's hands were, in fact, still tied, and that it probably wasn't very comfortable to him for his arms to be contorted around the back of that chair at such odd angles.  

After quickly running your hands through his hair to reassure him (and you, if you're honest with yourself), you knelt down behind him and set to work on the knots that bound his wrists with your blood-stained knife.  With each tug, you were reminded of a kick you had received to your side by a faintly burning pain, probably numbed by adrenaline, though you elected to ignore it as much as possible. As you sawed at the bonds, you heard Dean make some mumbled remark about "liked it better when you did it," but you were too intent on your task (and your pain) to really pay him much attention.  Halfway through the rope, you called Sam's name as loudly as you could manage.

Predictably, Sam came running.  You saw first the panic, then the relief flash over his features as the rope in your hands gave in to the blade.  Together, you and Sam, though your side screamed with every step, lugged a semi-conscious Dean out into the safety of the night.

* * *

"Ouch!"

You glared at Dean as you finished the last of the stitches, willing him with all of your might to please be still for half a minute longer as you stitched the sensitive skin of his palm, freshly sanitized by a handy bottle of hunters' helper. He fidgeted on the bed sheets as you worked, which would have been annoying if it weren't an odd sort of endearing.

"Got any more whiskey?" Dean ventured.  He rolled his eyes as you shook your head.  Lately you had seen his drinking habits go through the roof.  To say that you were worried for his liver would be an understatement.  He probably didn't even want the whiskey for the pain, in particular.  Dean, you had noticed, was not new to stitches or the general discomfort of first aid.  You had bandaged him and set his bones many times before this, had even helped Sam (though Dean preferred to do that himself)  when needed.  This was not the worst shape in which you had seen Dean Winchester, by far.

Nothing had been broken, which was always a plus, especially considering how pouty and petulant Dean became when unable to use a limb for any amount of time.  Dean's injuries this time were much less severe than they could have been, especially after an attack like that one had been. A friction burn had found its way onto Dean's knee when he was slung across the concrete floor. This you had cleaned and bandaged. In addition, several bruises now creeped across his face from various blows dealt to him. These were accompanied by trails of cuts of varying lengths and depths along his jaw, neck and arms from being hurled through a window by a particularly angry demon. This was how the gash on his palm had come to be.

When you were finished tending to his wounds (with no shortage of irritated grumbles from Dean), you placed the assortment of  medical paraphernalia on the shelf behind Dean's bed. Suddenly though, you decided that you weren't _quite_ finished yet.  On an impulse, you lifted his hand towards you and tenderly pressed your lips to the back of his torn hand, feeling the rough patches blend smoothly with unmarred skin, newly made years ago. You feel like that should bother you. It does not, especially not when you can smell his familiar scent beneath the inevitable hunters' perfume of gunpowder and sulfur, smoke and alcohol.

Dean, meanwhile, was not as content with having your lips on only his hand as you were.  He used his free fingers to tilt your chin up lovingly (though he would never admit it) so that he could look into your eyes a moment before leaning in slowly, then claiming your mouth with his surprisingly desperate tongue and teeth.  It was in moments like these when you felt the need Dean had for something more than one night stands and fleeting lovers.  As you felt your mouth working seemingly of its own accord to reciprocate his desire, you recognized, too, your own need for Dean Winchester.  Soon, his roaming hands found your back and shoulders, and he was pulling you down, down with him to the comfort of the sheets.

You don't know how it happened, but soon he was leaning over you, holding you in his arms as he worshiped you with his hands and eyes and thanked you with his tongue, but not with words.  You felt him hook one finger into your belt loop and you groaned a little into his mouth as he tugged ever so slightly.  You deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue over the inside of his split lower lip.  Dean's eyes, though surrounded by cuts and bruises, were lit with need as he slid his hand under your shirt.  As he did so, however, you hissed in pain as his hand brushed your side.  Dean recoiled as though he had been the one hurt, and with concern replacing the lust in his eyes flicking up and down over you, he gingerly lifted your shirt to expose a purpling bruise that shadowed most of your left side.  

You winced as Dean pressed lightly over it, and he grimaced with you.

"You got a broken rib, and you didn't think to tell me this sooner?"  Dean searched your face with an almost betrayed expression on his.  You opened your mouth to explain, but Dean Winchester was not in a listening mood.  "No.  Don't give me some crap about how I was hurt.  I was fine! You need-" He interrupted himself here to reach out for the proper bandages.  As he unrolled the material, he exhaled deeply to calm himself.  "Did that demon do this to you?" he asked, subdued fury coloring his voice, though you couldn't tell if the fury was for you, the demon, or for himself for letting you get hurt.  For letting you get hurt  _for him_.

You nodded in response and couldn't stifle a grunt as he tugged off your shirt and began wrapping you up.  "You need to take care of yourself," he said, fury replaced by fear, guilt, sadness, worry as his hands worked around you.  

You sat in silence, watching Dean's face soften gradually as he finished.  As he stowed the bandages again, he shook his head, an expression of disbelief now on his face, and said wonderingly, "And we were about to... with a broken rib!"  He swore under his breath and shook his head again, smirking slightly as you faintly blushed.  "You know," he added as he shucked off his hunt-dirtied clothing, leaving him in boxers and an undershirt, "you're tougher than you look."  With this he gave you a wicked smile in which you knew to be a rain-check for when you were both in better condition.

Even after he declared your strength, though, you could feel Dean's delicacy as he helped you to undress and slipped one of his old Zeppelin shirts over your head.  You didn't mind the tenderness with which he situated himself behind you and lowered you both back into the sheets, tugging the blankets up, over your arms, and shutting out the cool air.  You did not mind, in the least, the warmth your bodies created when wrapped in blankets, and you certainly did not mind falling asleep with Dean's arms wrapped carefully around you and his lips pressed to your shoulder in a kiss that would last until the morning.


End file.
